Edited for Death (11 page)

“Hey, it wasn’t very long,” I say. “You didn’t have to go to the kennel. You like Clarice. Did you have a good time with her? Did she take you for a walk? Do you need to go on another walk?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Summer’s here. I slog through the rising heat, glad I work inside.

Dodson is on my list today. As is an email to Phil when I get my questions formed.

I scan the newsroom on the way into my office. All heads down and working. Nobody looks ready to queue up but the line will form inevitably.

I dial the Marshalltown number. When Dodson’s voice comes on the line I put my bright phone persona on.

“Hi, Sheriff Dodson, it’s Amy Hobbes from the
Press
,” I say. “Did I catch you at a bad time? I wanted to talk a little bit about the murders.”

“No, but I don’t know what I can tell you. We haven’t developed any more information than I told you last time.”

An unpromising start, but I dive right in anyway. “After our visit, I’ve been sorting things out in my mind. Royce was open about a lot, but I get the feeling that he’s hiding—no, more like holding some things back. How’s his reputation?”

A small silence, then “I will say that a lot of the other business people in town are behind him,” Dodson says. “This town, and the county for that matter, could use a hefty infusion of cash, and if it comes from the Bay Area, so much the better. Those folks don’t put a burden on our services. We look at tourism as a real clean industry.”

“I can understand that,” I say, making notes to have Roberts develop a story on the hoped-for tourist boom. “Who’s the contractor, someone local?”

“Royce put his money in the right places when he came back up here. He said he wanted this to be a help to the locals and so he hired Burt Harmony. Burt’s family’s been here for about 75 years. I think his dad, Al, did some work on the hotel in the 60s and they stuck it out through the thin times so it’s fair that a good-sized job like this came his way.”

I have a nanosecond of conscience for walking on Clarice’s territory, but squash it and ask, “I know you said that you haven’t developed anything new, but is there any more you can tell me? I’ll settle for off-the-record background.”

“I just don’t have a thing, Amy. Even that stuff I gave you earlier, when Janice Boxer was killed, hasn’t gotten a bite of interest beyond the usual nut cases and conspiracy theory folks.”

“What conspiracies?” Woo-hoo! OK, here we go.

“Hey, wait, this is really off the record, and I sure don’t want to see any of this in some story, because it’s lunatic fringe and not true!”

I’ve jumped on him too fast. I back off and say, “There won’t be a word of this, I really am just looking for some background. I’ve only been with the
Press
for a few years and I’m still learning the area.”

“O.K., I didn’t mean to snap,” Dodson says. “I’ve had some TV people use off the record stuff on the air before and don’t like being burned. The current conspiracy going around here is that some Middle Eastern Muslim group is buying up land because they’ve found a major gold deposit and are planning to use it to pay for terrorist activities. First, there’s been no land bought or sold; second, there’s no gold left here, it was all mined before the end of last century and last, there is no Middle Eastern Muslim group in the county. Now I better not see any of this in print.”

I feel a flush creeping up my neck. I’ve pushed this good source. I cross my mental fingers that I haven’t pushed too hard and lost some of his trust. What he tells me is truly the lunatic fringe and no use to me at all.

I am miffed at myself. I know better than this.

“You won’t Jim. I’m sorry if I pushed you, but I really am just looking for some background. I’ve been trying to figure if there’s any more we need to do on the Calverts, the hotel, the murders, just all of it. You are always open and courteous with me, and with us, and I sure don’t want to jeopardize that.”

Mollified, Dodson says, “You’ve always been straight with me, too. I hope we’ll continue like that. I’ve got to get over to the court now, so was there anything else?”

I think my backpedaling allows us both to save face. It’s a strange, symbiotic relationship between the press and law enforcement. If the media doesn’t push a little, people accuse us of helping the cops cover up or reporting, “just whatever the cops said.” Push too hard, and law enforcement cuts off the communication.

I’m typing a note to Roberts as Clarice rounds my doorway, already in mid-sentence. At first, Clarice’s stream-of-consciousness conversations threw me but now I’m careful about interrupting. I realize she’s full-bore on the Terry murder as she says “Of course if his daughter hadn’t...”

“Hadn’t what,” I ask, more to slow her down than to get an answer.

I’ve pulled out some of my coolest summer clothes today and Clarice has, too. She’s wearing a scoop-neck cotton top, denim skirt and sandals. The top is coming untucked from the waistband and she’s spilled something, maybe the remains of a latte, on the right side of her skirt, just about where she has to use her car’s shift lever. Tendrils of hair are sweat-pasted around her hairline and her face is glistening.

“Hadn’t invited that scum to move in with her and her dad,” Clarice says. “The cops just arrested him, the scum boyfriend, for Terry James’ murder.”

“Where, when, why,” I ask, my attention smack in the present.

“Funny thing is,” Clarice only pauses to let my questions into her flow of words, “it wasn’t the Monroe police who found him, it was the Highway Patrol. They pulled over a car for erratic driving headed north on I-5, ran a check, found out that the car was a BOLO, stolen in Monroe. The driver gives them a license that doesn’t match his description; the CHP starts searching. They find some of the stuff stolen from James’ house and the driver admits he’s Orison Beach, Jetta James Forth’s boyfriend.”

“Where is he now?”

“The arrest was a couple of hours ago. The CHP called the Monroe Police in on it and Beach is still at the Monroe Police Department, being questioned. My source says he hasn’t confessed yet, but the cops are looking for a judge to sign warrants for hair and blood samples for DNA testing and Beach’s fingerprints are being compared to those found at the scene.”

“But if Beach was living at James’ house, his fingerprints would be all over the place,” I say.

“I know, but I’ll bet there are prints on things and in places where they shouldn’t be. Maybe the murder weapon. I’m sure they found blood at the house and in James’ car. And for all I know right now, James could have hurt Beach in some kind of a struggle. You know the cops won’t let all that info out. The first we’ll hear about it, if at all, is gonna be from the prosecution at Beach’s trial. Still, it feels good to know that they’ve caught him.”

I am quiet, mulling over how much we can print. For sure not Clarice’s suppositions.

“O.K. Clarice, you’ve got page one. Get as much as you can, get Beach’s background. Where did he grow up? How did Jetta meet him? What did he do for a living?” I always run through the obvious stuff, even with a solid reporter like Clarice.

She’s making squiggly marks in her notebook and seems subdued. She nods and pulls herself to her feet slowly. Not Clarice.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, but her mouth is a grim line. “I guess it’s the heat though; it’s really getting to me. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

I know how much Clarice makes, and it isn’t much. She lives in an apartment in one of the sketchier areas of town, probably without air conditioning. Both Redding and Fresno get hotter and stay hotter than Monroe but even here the heat leaves houses and bedrooms stuffy and too warm to be comfortable.

Southern California doesn’t heat up like the Valley but it wasn’t too hard for me to get acclimated. Clarice was born and raised near Seattle. She’s now way out of her comfort zone.

“Do you have to go out again? Can’t you do most of this by phone?” Motherhood is always just under my surface.

“I’m going to do as much as I can by phone right now,” she says. “If I can get an hour or so to cool off, I’ll tackle the neighborhood once more when people get home from work, and that should be good.”

I shift gears and call Gwen, the city hall reporter.

“What’s going on with the prezoning or rezoning or whatever is going to happen before the city approves the new church site?” I’m trying to keep this story front and center because there’s a lot of tax money at stake.

Her tone is surprised. “I thought you wanted Don to cover that for the religion beat.”

“I do but I haven’t heard rumblings and a project this size will have NIMBYs up in arms over traffic or habitat preservation or noise or something. Have you heard anything?” The minute any development is mentioned, the Not-in-my-back-yard groups gather their forces, begin petition drives and get themselves on city meeting agendas. This should be bringing them out of the woodwork.

“Well,” Gwen says with a frown, “it’s been quiet lately. You know, two of the city council members are members of that church. Do you think there’s conflict of interest?”

Next to conspiracy theories, nothing stirs community blood like a conflict of interest. Everybody knows that all politicians are on the take.

“Maybe not conflict, but the perception can be there. I’d like you to do a hard look at what is conflict-of-interest. If it blows up at a hearing, I want us to be ready.”

If Gwen is miffed, or thinks she’s being asked to do a co-worker’s job, she doesn’t show it.

Next up, Sandy, a copy editor originally from the Czech Republic who lobbies for more space for world news. My answer is no. I like Sandy, but there aren’t very many people in Monroe who give a rat’s ass about small European countries—or even know where they are.

I start reading stories already filed by the reporters and send them back for rewriting. When I’m finished, I get a water out of the fridge in the breakroom and step outside. It’s edging into evening now and the heat has turned itself down from blast to simmer.

Too hot. I go back in and see Clarice has come in.

“I actually got some stuff.” Her voice is ragged from the heat. “Beach went to school here and worked at some of the packing sheds. He met Jetta at a bar. They went boating and water-skiing with friends, went camping, lots of wholesome stuff at the beginning. Some friends bought their boats and cars by dealing drugs, so our boy Orison thought that might be a nifty way to make money, looked a whole lot easier than working at a day job. Trouble was, he wasn’t very good at it. Most of his friends were already dealing so he didn’t have a very big clientele and what profits there were weren’t covering his debts. This is all background; we can’t run any of it. I really couldn’t find anyone today in his corner. I’m snagging a high school yearbook for a picture of him. You’ll have a medium, maybe 15-inch story if that’s OK.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It isn’t cool and it isn’t dark when Clarice and I come out of the
Press
.

“What are you doing this evening?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I didn’t have anything planned. I might go to a movie to get cool,” she says. Her voice has the oomph of wilted lettuce

“Why don’t you come on over for a swim and dinner.” I can’t help myself when Mom appears. Clarice is just a few years older than Heather and I’d like it if someone helped her out sometimes.

“Great. I’ll see you in about half an hour?” Clarice’s voice had regained some of its lilt and her body seemed lighter, more buoyant.

Maybe the heat is getting to her. The heat and prospect of going home to sit alone and swelter in an apartment with no air-conditioning would be enough to make a cheerleader cranky.

I’ve lived alone for close to four years now, but I still seem to shop for a houseful so I know I can always find something to fix. No doubt I have issues about the future. I have a friend in Southern California who harbors a fear of ending up as a bag lady and buys pieces of silver—a spoon, a dessert fork—when she’s stressed. I can’t afford silver, so I stockpile groceries.

Maybe I should overcome it. Or maybe not.

I stick stuff on skewers for ka-bobs and light the outside grill. Mac’s barking announces Clarice and she says, “Hello there Mac, how’s my pal?”

I pour us an iced tea and we walk to the edge of the pool.

“I don’t know why, but I always stick my foot in first, I guess I’m too chicken for immediate immersion,” I say standing on the first step.

“Guess that’s one more difference between us, then,” Clarice says and dives into the deep end.

Keeping the house after Brandon left was expensive. Living here eats up most of my income but, in practicality, the house is a solid asset, about the only thing I have that continues to appreciate.

“There was another reason I asked you to dinner tonight, Clarice,” I say when we’ve finished our meal. I waited until full dark before bringing up my forays into Marshalltown and my search for links between the murders. I’m concerned Clarice will feel it’s a slap at her and her abilities.

I fiddle with the spoon in my iced tea glass. “Something just doesn’t feel right. I haven’t come across anything specific, but it’s as though there’s a riptide under the surface. I found an old photo of the Calverts on the verandah of the hotel when Robert announced his first campaign. There was a guy with them, an Army buddy of Robert’s.

“And I met him Saturday night in San Francisco.”

Clarice sits up. “You
met
him? He’s still alive?”

She smacks herself in the head. “Well, duh. That’s one of my better ones.”

I’m smiling in the dark. “I know, I almost said the same thing to him. But yep. He looks good for his age; money helps that. He owns an art gallery and runs with the high-priced crowd.”